


To and From

by lxlypctter



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Post-Mockingjay, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2020-10-19 11:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20656190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lxlypctter/pseuds/lxlypctter
Summary: Fifteen years of Katniss and Peeta's visits to and from family and friends in District 4.





	1. Solo

In the days before I leave, Peeta does everything for me. He packs my bag, makes my favorite dinners, leaves notes in the kitchen for me to see when I get back from hunting. I appreciate it, but I don't understand why he's doing it until I ask one night before bed.

“You don't want to go and I’m the person who told you that you should,” he says, propping himself up on his elbow and leaning over me. I’ve barely been able to sleep all week because I’ve been thinking about it so much. “Since you’re dreading it, I'm trying to make up for the fact that I’m the person who encouraged you to go.”

“If you think that you have to make up for it, then why are you so insistent that I go in the first place?”

“You haven’t seen your mother in almost three years,” says Peeta. “Plus you get to meet Annie’s son. I think that it’ll be good for you.”

“I just don’t understand why you went through the trouble of getting me permission to leave the district just to do something that you think  _ might  _ do me some good,” I tell him.

He shrugs and lays back down. “I know you're not looking forward to it, but you'll enjoy it more than you want to.”

“I will?” I say. “Hanging out with the mom who abandoned me and the wife of a guy who died on a mission I designed. Sounds like a ball.”

“Your mom did not—”

I roll over. “Goodnight, Peeta.”

He sighs. “Goodnight, Katniss.”

The morning of my departure arrives after a night of no sleep. Peeta’s in good spirits. Probably because he’s not the one going.

“You seem like you’re excited I’ll be gone,” I joke weakly on the way to the station. He’s carrying my backpack on one shoulder as we walk with our interlocked hands swinging between us.

“I'm not excited you'll be gone,” he says, “but I'm excited that you get to go.”

“You should be coming with me,” I complain.

“We’ve been over this.”

“And your excuses are useless,” I say.

“Sure they're useless,” he says, “but I’m still not going.”

We walk into the station, which has a wooden roof and is completely open to the outside on all four sides. Only two tracks come into the station. Someone’s smoking on a bench near us. An electric sign on the wall that looks like it’s about to fall shows the arrival and departure times of the trains. Peeta goes over to it to check.

“The direct train to Four is on time and departing at 10:15,” he says when he returns. “And we’re already at the right platform. You’ve got the ticket?”

“Unfortunately,” I say.

He smiles. “Good. You can board at 10:00. Just show the person at the entrance your ticket and they’ll stamp it.”

“I think I can figure out how boarding a train works,” I say.

“I’m just helping,” says Peeta innocently. “You’ve never done this in the ‘new Panem.’ I have.”

We stand there, watching a handful of people scurry around the platform. Travel between districts has gone from strictly forbidden to a normal occurrence. Ordinary people can now visit family in Two, do business in Three, and vacation in Four all while living in a district on the other side of the country. It used to be odd to me that Peeta and I had grown so accustomed to train rides from two Games and a Victory Tour, but now it doesn't seem so outlandish.

“I’m not going to see you for a week,” I say abruptly.

“I know,” says Peeta. “But you can call me every night.”

“I don’t want to wake you up,” I say, “if you’re two hours ahead of us.”

“Chances are I'll be awake anyway,” he says grimly.

“Peeta—”

“But it’s worth it,” he adds quickly. “I'd rather be awake while you’re in Four than sleeping soundly with you beside me—”

“So you  _ do  _ want me gone!”

“—when you  _ could _ be in Four,” finishes Peeta, emphasizing his last words. “You’ll enjoy it as long as you try to enjoy it.”

I’m hesitant to believe him. The thought of what awaits me in the night when I'm alone is overwhelming. Still, I nod in understanding if only to appease him.

I have the weird urge to cry when I board the train by myself. Peeta’s still standing on the platform, looking around at the growing number of people seeking to board the train, and waving at me every once in a while. I watch him until the train begins to move and he’s out of sight.

The journey is supposed to be ten hours. Ten long hours of dizzily staring out the window with my backpack in the seat next to me. Peeta packed a notebook in the most easily accessible pocket just in case I was driven to journal on this trip. Every once in a while one of us will have an idea for what we call “the book,” so I’m assuming he packed the notebook as a precaution. I’m tempted to crack it open and write about how resistant I am towards going to Four, but I realize that I don’t have the energy. 

I pull my hoodie up and doze on and off for a couple of hours before I dream that I’m falling and jolt awake. I blink a few times and look around. Everyone looks normal. Nobody has noticed me. The train is still speeding along. For now, everything is okay.

I watch a movie over someone’s shoulder. I fiddle with my backpack, checking to make sure everything’s still there. My clothes. The dumb journal. A note I scribbled down with our home phone number and Haymitch’s number. Two letters from Peeta, one for Annie and one for my mother.

Somehow the entire journey passes without anybody noticing that Katniss Everdeen is in their car. Four’s station is huge, busy, and crowded, but somehow my backpack and I weave our way through masses of people until we’re in the blinding sunlight, staring at the streets outside.

I recognize the ocean in the distance from when Peeta and I came here on the Victory Tour. It was the only thing we saw in District Four before we were herded by the Peacekeepers into a car. Peeta, I remember, was in awe of it.

There’s a map of the district at the entrance to the station, and I squint at it until I find ‘Victor’s Village.’ It looks like it’s along the ocean and only a mile or two away.

I find it by following the main road that was in front of the station. The people I pass stare at me incredulously because of the hoodie I’m wearing in this heat. I don’t dare take it off: it prevents them from staring at me for a different reason.

The Victor’s Village of District 4 is colorful, cheery, and lively. Obviously: it’s had residents basically since the Games were first instated. Annie’s told us in letters that she has neighbors even though she’s the only victor from 4 left. Haymitch, Peeta, and I had neighbors, too, when 12 was first being rebuilt. Eventually, everyone moved out except the three of us. Once, Peeta volunteered to help one of the families move their furniture and asked why they were leaving. The stiff, grand houses didn’t feel like home to them.

The houses in 4, though, are nothing like the drab prizes we were given back in 12. They’re all lined up on one side of the street so that the beach is their backyard. Each one is brightly painted—yellow, green, red, orange, blue. I already know that Peeta would love it here.

Annie said that her house is the green one on the far left. I spot it down the row—there are more houses than in Twelve, but still not very many—and begin my trek over to it. If I were at home right now, Peeta and I would be sitting on the couch in the living room maybe talking about the bakery, or Haymitch’s drinking phases, or maybe working on the book. Instead, I’m exhausted from doing nothing except sitting and walking a couple of miles.

It takes all of my energy to be in a good mood when Annie answers the door. She immediately engulfs me in a hug, tells me how excited she is to see me, how good it is to be reunited after a few years. I’m not caught off-guard by this welcome, but it’s still a little surprising—maybe she doesn’t realize how little I’m in touch with her and how much of the letter-writing Peeta does. Peeta’s far closer to her than I am. But it’s still nice to see her.

Behind her is her two-year-old son. He stares at me and I stare at him. I can tell he’s his father’s son in his face and I almost gasp aloud. Why did I think this was a good idea? I’m not over Finnick’s death, I’ll never be over it, seeing the son that he never knew will never help me get over it—

“This is Nick,” she says, scooping him up into her arms. “Can you say hi to Katniss?”

“Hi,” he says shyly, burying his face in Annie’s shoulder.

“Hi,” I say, almost equally timidly.

“Do you want some cheese and crackers?” asks Annie.

“My mother’s coming at eight,” I blurt out. “To take me to her apartment.”

“Then you have time,” she says.

I look at a clock on the wall: it’s 7:15. The sun has just begun to set over the horizon, which I can see through a back wall of windows.

“I like this room,” I tell her, walking over to the glass and barely restraining myself from pressing my face against it. “It must be bright during the day.”

“It’s nice,” says Annie. Balancing Nick on her hip, she swoops around the corner with a tray of snacks. I sit down in the chair closest to the door, which gives me a view of the kitchen and the sunroom I’m seated in.

The walls are adorned with photos, seashells, and colorful stained glass. I notice a picture from Finnick and Annie’s wedding in Thirteen; another of Nick as a baby; and another of Annie and a slightly younger-looking Nick down on the beach. Annie chatters on while I examine my surroundings. Her house is so much more spirited than mine and Peeta’s.

“—to take Nick sailing, but I should wait until he’s at least three,” she says. “I don’t even know if they make lifejackets for kids younger than that!” Her words are gibberish to me, but I nod along anyway and pretend like I understand what she’s saying.

The sun has set by the time my mother arrives at eight o’clock on the dot. I’m conveniently in the bathroom when she comes. When I finally force myself to come out, she greets me as if I’d just come home from a successful day of hunting with Gale. As if seeing her daughter for the first time in more than two years is a casual everyday occurrence.

I thank Annie for the snacks and promise that I’ll return sometime tomorrow. Annie closes the door behind my mother and I too quickly, leaving the two of us alone too soon. I’ve had years to prepare for us being reunited and I’m nowhere close to being ready.

My mother’s apartment building is only about twenty minutes away, but the route is twisty and along backroads that all look the same. I’m glad I went to Annie’s first—her house was much easier to find.

The apartment is small, with one bedroom and an open kitchen and living room. My mother offers me her bed, but I’d rather sleep on the couch. Less like home. It’ll remind me that I’m not there if I wake up disoriented in the middle of the night.

I settle into a chair in the living room, and she offers me wine but I turn it down. She pours herself a glass anyway and makes herself comfortable on the sofa before she begins to ask me about Twelve’s rebuild. I tell her it’s going well, that we’re still small but more and more people are coming. We’re Capitolizing, too—that’s what the newspapers Peeta reads call the phenomenon of entertainment spreading around the districts. Movies. TV shows. Fancy restaurants. Concert venues. District Twelve is more alive than my mother and I have ever known it to be.

“How did you get permission to leave Twelve?” she asks eventually. “I thought your sentence was confinement there.”

“Peeta made some appeal that my guardian lives in a different district and I’ve been making progress,” I explain passively. He wrote the letter from my perspective, without describing the details to me until he had sent it. Miraculously (and disappointingly), the appeal was accepted.

My mother nods. “Good.”

We sit there silently. I fidget with the hem of my shirt until I eventually wrap it in my fist with finality. “I want to go to bed,” I say.

“Of course,” she says quickly. “You’ve had a long day.”

She stands and begins to bustle around the room, her glass of wine still in-hand. The next thing I know, the sofa has a pillow propped up against its arm and a blanket draped across it. She says something quietly about being glad I’m here, then goes into the kitchen and cleans for a few minutes before she retires to her room, too.

The only thing I do before I call Peeta is change clothes. I find the phone, which resides on the kitchen counter, and am surprised to find that it’s removable and not limited by a cord. Odd. I take it out and carry it to my bed, carefully dialing the number.

The phone rings and rings with no answer. I should be glad—that means Peeta’s asleep—but I selfishly wish he were awake. I’m so confused by everything I’m feeling and everything that’s happening that I just want to tell it all to him. He helps me figure these things out.

But he does pick up at the last second, and hearing his voice on the other end makes my heart pound. I haven’t even been gone for a day but it feels like I haven’t seen him in months.

“Hello?” he says groggily.

“Peeta,” I say. “Sorry if I woke you up.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I wasn’t sleeping very well, anyway.”

“Sorry.”

“Katniss, you don’t have to apologize,” says Peeta firmly. “It’s not your fault. It’s just how things go.”

“Okay.”

He waits a moment before speaking. “How are you settling in?” he asks eventually.

“I just want to go home,” I groan.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“There were pictures of Finnick hanging in Annie’s house. My mom has a photo of Prim on the mantle,” I say. “It made me glad that we don’t have pictures like that around the house.”

“Isn’t it like the book?” he says. “There are pictures of them in there, too.”

“I don’t have to see the book every day,” I point out. “Prim’s picture is in the room I’m sleeping in. Watching me.”

“I’m sorry,” says Peeta, and that’s the end of that. “How’s Nick? And Annie?”

“They’re good,” I say, my throat beginning to burn. I blink repeatedly. “Annie’s different. She said she goes to therapy.”

“And your mother?”

I break now. This shouldn’t bother me as much as it does. I should be happy for her but I can’t find it in me. “She’s moved on,” I sob quietly, not wanting her to hear me. “She’s happy, and things don’t bother her like they do me, and she’s different, too—I don’t know if she did therapy or—” I catch my breath, gasping for air. Crying has become second nature in the past few years, but it still suffocates me no matter how accustomed to it I am.

“It’s okay,” he says. “That’s good for her, right?”

I manage a “Yes” while trying to muffle the awful, vulnerable noises coming out of my mouth.

“Try to be happy for her,” says Peeta. “I know it’s hard because you’re not completely content with where you are in your recovery—”

I compose myself just long enough to admit, “I don’t even try anymore.”

“I know,” he says gently. “Maybe this shows you that you need to. They have therapy here in Twelve now. We can afford it.”

“I don’t care about that,” I say. “I just don’t want it to bother me so much.”

“Therapy will help.”

“You don’t go to therapy and you’re completely fine.”

“I’m not completely fine,” says Peeta coolly. “I’m still recovering, too. I actually had a flashback this afternoon. But I’m not pushing down my problems and my guilt and my grief and trying to ignore that all of that’s there. And I talk to Capitol doctors once a week.”

Neither of us speaks for nearly a minute as his words sink in. He’s right: I’m not actively trying to handle anything. It’s defeating me. Annie and my mother are the success stories that I believe I can never come close to. I’m easily allowing my nightmares to consume me.

“You’d like it here,” I say finally. “You’d like the village. For the victors. Their Victor’s Village. It’s colorful. And the ocean’s right behind it. It’s really pretty.”

“I remember the ocean,” he says distantly.

“You begged Effie to let us go,” I say, hoping he remembers our visit from four years ago. “But the Peacekeepers wouldn’t let us.”

“And then we had a view of the beach at the dinner that night,” says Peeta, and I can tell from the tone of his voice that the memory’s returning to him. “But it was dark and we could only hear the waves.” He thinks for a second, probably trying to recall more details. “Real or not real?”

“Real,” I say. “You kept glancing over at the banister like you were going to jump over it into the sand.”

“You probably would’ve joined me.”

“Probably,” I say, smiling a little. “How was the bakery today?”

“The same as it always is,” he says. “Though it  _ was  _ especially disappointing to come home and know that you were on a train across the country instead of just upstairs.”

“I would’ve given anything to be upstairs instead of on a train across the country,” I grumble. “I still would.”

“How was the train?”

“Boring,” I say.

“Did you deliver my letters yet?”

Shoot. “No, I forgot,” I say. “I will tomorrow.”

We say our goodbyes and somehow I go to sleep pretty quickly. To my surprise, I’m not plagued by any nightmares. But I do wake up on my side facing the hearth, and just above the fireplace is the picture of a grinning Prim.

My mother’s already in the kitchen, clanging dishes around as she cooks breakfast. I sit down at the kitchen table, muttering a low “Good morning” as I enter.

“Did you call Peeta last night?” she asks matter-of-factly, sliding a plate of eggs and toast in front of me.

“Yes,” I say immediately. “Did I wake you up?”

“No,” she says. “I just saw the phone on the table next to the couch.”

“Oh,” I say, relief flooding through me. She didn't hear my outburst. “He, uh, wrote you a letter. It’s in my backpack. I’ll go get it.”

I retrieve it quickly, and my mother sits down at the table across from me to read it while I eat. Her eyes scan it hungrily for a few minutes—it’s a long letter—but she doesn’t tell me what he wrote when I ask.

As resistant as I am towards the entire visit to 4, I do get into a routine for a few days. My mother works Sundays through Fridays at the neighborhood apothecary and makes me breakfast before she leaves. I go to Annie’s during the day and am eventually able to look at Nick without my heart skipping a beat. Walking along the ocean makes me imagine that Peeta was here. And Prim’s face smiling down on me every morning almost becomes a comfort.

I return to my mom’s apartment for dinner every night. It's a silent affair until one of us thinks of a question to ask the other. Usually I answer her questions. How Peeta’s flashbacks are. What time I get up to hunt. How Haymitch is coping. What things I do during the day. How often I have nightmares. What my favorite cake is in Peeta’s vast repertoire.

One night—Wednesday—our conversation takes a turn. She starts asking about my relationship with Peeta. How much he’s at my house since he’s always the one to answer the phone. How much he’s really recovered. How much I’m leaving out about the time we spend together. I give her curt responses and nothing more. She didn’t come back to 12 with her ailing daughter. She doesn’t deserve to know what’s happening in my life.

I have a nightmare that night. It’s the kind that I can’t wake up from. In the morning, I’m sweaty and my blanket is somehow on the other side of the room.

“Peeta,” I whisper the next night into the phone. “What did your letter to my mom say?”

“I told her the truth about us,” he says honestly. “Not everything. But I told her that I’m still improving and...you are, too.”

“I’m not, though.”

“I was being generous,” teases Peeta. “I didn’t tell her too much.”

“She was interrogating me about it last night,” I say. “About our relationship.”

“Is that so bad?”

_ “No _ , it’s just...weird,” I say. “Even Haymitch knows us better than she does.”

“Haymitch knows me better than my entire family did,” says Peeta. “He cares about us more than he wants to admit. So don’t use him as a standard.”

“But we’ve never really put what we are into words,” I say. “People at home just know that we’re together. But are we dating? Are we picking up from where we left off and we’re engaged? Are we just sleeping together?”

He laughs. “Well, it’s definitely not the last two. I think we’d both know if we were engaged. And ‘just sleeping together’ doesn’t describe it.”

“It’s true.”

“We’re not  _ just  _ sleeping together,” he says. “We live together, too. So it’s more than that.”

“We’re dating?”

“Sure we are,” says Peeta. “We’re dating with the knowledge that we’re never going to date anyone else.”

I suck in my breath involuntarily. His words are completely true, of course—maybe that’s why they’re so shocking.

“Is that a surprise?” he says genuinely. “I didn’t mean for it to be. I just meant—”

“No, you’re right,” I say quickly, swallowing. “That’s just...I don’t know. Saying it aloud makes it sound...official.”

“That’s okay, right?” Peeta says, suddenly nervous. “Making it official?”

I roll my eyes. “No, sorry. I’m going to run off with the guy I bought shrimp from today.”

“Oh, ha-ha,” he says sarcastically. He pauses. “Really, though. I’ve been thinking about this a lot this week.”

“Labeling our relationship?” I say, frowning. “That’s a waste of time.”

“No,” he says. “About us spending the rest of our lives together.”

“Oh.”

“It’s late,” says Peeta quickly. “I should go to bed. Goodnight, Katniss. I love you.”

“Only one more night after this one,” I say.

“Try to enjoy it,” he says. “You don’t know when you’ll be back.”

I don’t say it aloud, but I’m almost positive that I’ll be back here soon, this time with Peeta in tow.

* * *

My mother joins me at Annie’s house for dinner on Friday night, my last night in 4. It’s my last ocean sunset on this trip.

Nick goes to bed while I’m sitting in the sand down on the beach by myself. I don’t get to say goodbye to him. He won’t care. It’s probably better that I don’t. For my own sanity. I got to the point where I was able to look at him and see a toddler instead of his father. Saying goodbye will only revive the parts of Finnick that I see in him. He’s only two. He doesn’t need the burden of my stagnant mourning on his little shoulders.

Annie comes and joins me by the water, leaving my mother by herself on the porch. “You looked lonely,” she says as she sits down. Her presence isn’t unwelcome.

We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the waves on the shore just a few feet in front of us. Then, out of nowhere, the words come out of my mouth before I have time to think.

“How do you deal with it?”

She’s not alarmed by my question. In fact, she looks almost at peace as she answers it. “I remember the happy times,” she says dreamily. “I forget the bad ones.” She closes her eyes, thinking. “And I have Nick.”

Of course. Her son has probably been the greatest comfort to her. But I can’t fathom how she even has an ounce of energy to raise him without her husband by her side.

“Peeta said in his letter that you’re having a hard time,” says Annie.

“Yeah.”

She puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be okay.”

* * *

Saying goodbye to my mother is uncomfortable. I could never live with her again, but I did grow used to her couch and the seafood dinners we shared. My train leaves early on Saturday morning and she walks me to the station, gives me a quick hug, and ushers me to the platform. Very few words are exchanged between us, but I think I see her wipe a hand at her eyes as I turn to board the train.

I remember the journal Peeta packed for me. About halfway through the ten-hour ride, I pull it out. I write about the water, and the sand, and how different being at the beach was this time than in the arena. I write about how different Annie and my mom are than when I last saw them. Nick’s familiar eyes. Prim on the mantle. The telephone that didn't have a cord.

I’m not much of a writer, but maybe this is a start.

* * *

It feels like I never left home by the time the train arrives at Twelve’s station. It’s only five o’clock—my mother dropped me off at five in the morning in District 4 time. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and dart to the door, wanting to get out of here as fast as I can. The open-air platform is humid but familiar. I’m finally, finally home.

Only a few seconds pass before I spot Peeta, standing away from the platform. I don’t think he notices me until I’m right in front of him, sliding my backpack down to the ground with a thud and throwing my arms around his neck before either of us realize what’s happening. “I’m never going anywhere without you again,” I whisper into his ear.

“Okay” is his response. We sway for a moment, his bad leg a bit caught off guard. But neither of us let go. 

He kisses the side of my head, then steps forward to grab the backpack. “Shall we?” he says, motioning to the exit.

I follow him, and he interrogates me thoroughly about how my week was. I’m surprised that there are still things to tell him after speaking to him every night. But he asks about Nick. And the beach. And Nick. And the houses. And Nick again.

“You know, I was there with other people besides Nick,” I say when he asks a third time.

“I know,” he says. “But he’s the one person I haven't met.”

“He's also  _ two,” _ I say. “That might be why you haven’t met him.”

Peeta drops the subject, and I resolve to tell him about my journaling on the train. He’s over the moon.

“This is great, Katniss!” he says excitedly. “You  _ want  _ to make progress now.” He kisses me enthusiastically in the middle of the main path through the district. “This is going to be good for you. Less nightmares. Less grief.”

I’m skeptical, but I agree if only to appease him. Maybe I will see changes. I hope I do. I’m not resistant to change, but I’m not sure if writing about the things I did and saw in Four are going to help me deal with the things I did and saw during the Games and the rebellion. But it’s better than nothing.

The smell of my house is oddly refreshing. I never thought I would long for it as much as I did. We deposit my luggage in the entrance hall, kick off our shoes, and immediately head into the living room. Before I sit down, I realize that sheets are tucked into the corners of the couch and a blanket is neatly folded on top of them.

“You slept on the couch?” I say, surprised.

He shrugs. “I could hear the phone better. And sleeping upstairs by myself wasn’t the same.”

I frown, and he adds, “But I slept fine.”

I plop down onto his makeshift bed and he follows suit. “You said you were thinking about...us. This week. While I was gone.”

“Oh,” says Peeta. “Yeah.”

I wait expectantly for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.

“And…?” I prompt again. “You thought...."

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s not a big deal.”

“Peeta, clearly it means something,” I say firmly. “You can tell me.”

“You just got back,” says Peeta, shaking his head again. “I don’t want to bother you with it.”

“Okay,” I say cautiously. “But it’s not bad, is it?”

“I don’t think so,” he says. He smiles weakly. “But you might.”

“What?” I say. “Now you  _ have _ to tell me.”

“I was just thinking about having kids,” Peeta blurts out. “That's all.”

“That's why you kept asking about Nick.”

“Partly, I guess.”

I don’t reply.

“We can just drop it,” says Peeta immediately. “This is why I didn't want to say anything. I know you don’t—”

“No,” I say, my eyes boring into a random spot on the wall across from me. “No, I’m glad you said it.”

“You are?”

I turn to him now. “You want kids.”

“Yes.”

“Then you deserve them,” I say.

“What? No—”

I don't know why I'm saying all of this. But I do know that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life denying Peeta the one thing he wants.

“You deserve to be happy, Peeta,” I say. “But I’m not—I never—I can’t have kids. I don’t want them. I never have. And after I fell apart while I was in Four and since I’m definitely not where I should be mentally—”

“I’m not saying right now,” Peeta says quickly. “I’m not ready for it, either. But sometime. Maybe. Just forget about it. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“You want it, though,” I continue. “And I can't.....”

He takes my hand into his and squeezes it. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. It’s okay.”

“But—”

“Katniss, it was just a thought.”

“Well, you said you thought a lot about the future this week!” I say angrily. “I guess this is what you were thinking about the whole time?”

“No,” he says. “I thought about us. I thought about you. I thought about me. I thought about kids, too, but not  _ only  _ kids.”

He lets his words settle in before he scoots closer to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me closer to him. “I’m perfectly happy with us the way we are,” he says into my ear. “Just the two of us in this house, recovering.”

“Three of us.”

“What?”

“You forgot Haymitch.”

Peeta laughs. “Yeah, well, he has very different coping methods from ours,” he says.

“Geese aren’t your preferred source of comfort?”

“If only.” He kisses my temple. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me, too,” I say, leaning into him. “Peeta?”

“Mm?”

I play with his hands, looping my fingers around his. “Let’s not worry about the future right now.”

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I’ve got the rest of this at least drafted out; it’s just a matter of finishing the unfinished and adding to the plot(s) based on how the chapters turn out. One down, fourteen more chapters to go! (We’ll see how long this ends up taking….)


	2. Hosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss's mother visits Twelve for the first time since the war.

“Does this look right?”

I look up from what I’m writing to see what Peeta’s drawn. It’s a simple pencil sketch, but it perfectly captures the person that we’re currently adding to the book: Boggs.

We’re sitting on the floor of the living room, huddled around scraps of paper and photos for “the book.” We don’t do this every day—maybe once every week or two—but when we do, we deeply immerse ourselves in it. Today is one of those days. I had the idea during dinner and we’ve been working on Boggs’s page ever since.

“It looks great,” I say, though my sincerity sounds a bit harsher than I intended for it to.

“Really?” says Peeta hesitantly. “I’ve got more paper, I can—”

“No,” I interrupt. “It looks good. Really.”

He frowns. “If you’re sure, then.” He rips the page out of his notepad and sets it beside my workspace on the coffee table.

“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asks, leaning into the sofa and stretching his arms as he suppresses a yawn.

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re the one who makes plans in this house, not me.”

“Right, sorry,” says Peeta with a grin. “We’ll finish getting your mom’s room ready in the morning—”

“Don’t you have to work?”

“No, I took tomorrow off.”

I tap my pen on the table. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I thought you might not want to spend the first day alone with your mom.”

“I guess.” 

I’m grateful, but I feel guilty that he took a day off of work just for the sake of my poor relationship with my mother. We've kept in touch since my visit to Four a year ago—at least, more than we had in the years before that—but I wouldn’t say that we’re on better terms than we used to be. We just write letters more often than we did and occasionally she’ll call me on the phone.

“We’ll go get her in the afternoon and then I’ll make dinner,” finishes Peeta.

“And I’ll help you make dinner if things are going badly,” I add.

He laughs. “As long as you make an effort, things won’t go badly.”

“You and I have different definitions of effort,” I grumble, shuffling together all of the scraps of papers on the table and tucking them in between Boggs’s pages. “But I’ll try. I don’t want to put myself in hell for a week.”

“That's the spirit!” says Peeta sarcastically.

* * *

It turns out that my mother’s bedroom doesn’t need much cleaning. Peeta goes in once a year to make sure everything’s in order and, no surprise, nothing has changed since he last checked it a few months ago. We do a bit of dusting on the bookshelf and make sure the pillows aren’t too deflated before we deem it acceptable for our guest.

So we spend the rest of the morning finishing Boggs’s pages in the book. After the progress we made last night, there's not much left to do except put it all together. We’re done by lunch, after which Peeta begins to go around the house making sure everything is absolutely clean.

“We don’t live in a dump,” I say, following him down the hall as he inspects the photographs that line the walls.

“I know,” he says calmly.

“There’s nothing else to do.”

“There’s always more that we can do,” says Peeta, stopping at the photo of my father and wiping off a smidge of dust with his finger.

“How can you even _ see _that?” I mutter, folding my arms across my chest.

“It's just a matter of knowing what to look for,” he tells me, moving onto the next picture.

I sigh, rubbing my temples as I turn away and rub my temples. As much as I love Peeta, I still do not understand how he functions even after years of living with him.

The rest of the afternoon passes quickly. Peeta scrutinizes the rest of the house for another half-hour before he declares that our house is perfectly and unnecessarily clean. For a second I assume that this must be a trait he picked up from his merchant family, but then I realize that nobody in Twelve ever had houseguests before the rebellion. It must be pure Peeta.

We play card games on the coffee table to pass the two hours before we have to go to the station. This will be the first time we have ever hosted anybody for more than a last-minute dinner after a fruitful hunting morning. My mother will be staying for six days. Not the typical maximum-three-hours-and-gone that I’ve come to expect from our few guests.

“Ready?” says Peeta, suddenly gathering our playing cards into a pile and neatly stacking them up together. My heart sinks. It’s already four o’clock.

“She doesn’t get here until four-thirty,” I say, though I know what Peeta’s response will be. I want to avoid confronting what I know is coming for as long as I possibly can. If I didn’t have Peeta urging me on, I probably wouldn’t have made any effort to clean the house or tidy up my mother’s bedroom. And I definitely wouldn’t have told my mom I’d meet her at the station.

“Long-distance trains usually get in early,” he says, just as I expected him to. “And if she’s not in yet, then we can just wait. There’s no harm in getting there before she does.”

We grab our coats and put on our boots by the door. The leaves outside have only just started to change color, but there’s still a fresh chill to the air that has dissuaded me from hunting the past few mornings. Peeta’s habit of leaving the windows open even when it’s freezing has become a fantastic excuse to stay in bed longer than I normally do.

On the way, Peeta tells me about some dilemma he’s having at the bakery—it’s about bread versus cake in the display window or something and I’m desperately trying to pay attention but whatever he’s talking about goes over my head. He doesn’t seem put off when it’s clear I’m in an anxiety-ridden world of my own, just holds my hand and squeezes it every once in awhile.

By the time we arrive, the station is abuzz. We sit on a bench in the corner, and I bounce my leg as we wait. Peeta quietly says that the train has arrived and asks if I want to get closer so my mother can find us, but when I don’t reply he stands, takes my hand, and leads me forward.

“I know you don’t want to do this,” he whispers into my ear, “but it’s important for you. Both of you.”

My heart skips a beat as she approaches us, a smile on her face. She hugs me first, then Peeta, who asks her about her journey and if he can help with her luggage. My mother brought only a suitcase, which won’t roll very well on the dirt and gravel paths that we take to get back to the Victor’s Village; Peeta carries it for her.

We lead her to her room once we’re back at the house. She says something about how she’s missed this place, which bothers me.

My mom asks for a tour, and Peeta goes off to make dinner, so I lead her around the house even though not much has changed since she lived here. Really, the biggest difference is the layer of dust that covers most of the bedrooms. She was always diligent about keeping every room fresh while she lived here. Normally Peeta and I don’t really care much about keeping the unused bedrooms tidied up. He just does his annual check-ups on everything and calls it a day. But today he turned into some sort of fastidious freak that I’ve never seen before.

I walk her through the upstairs hallway, pointing to my bedroom and the two neighboring spares. She’s sleeping downstairs, so I don’t find the need to spend much time up there. I mostly reside on the first floor, anyway.

I make sure to keep my eyes on the stairs as we go down to the living room, walking past the study. My mother peeks in the room but quickly rejoins me by the fireplace.

“I noticed the pictures in the hall,” she says, settling herself down in the chair opposite me.

“Oh, yeah,” I say nonchalantly. “Peeta put those up a little while ago.”

I got the idea from Annie, but I didn’t mention it to him until months after my trip. He hung them up in secret while I was hunting. It took some getting used to to come down the stairs and see a picture of myself and Peeta hanging on the wall, but eventually I stopped looking at that one. And all of them. Sometimes I can’t help myself and I glance up at one, but most of the time I try to stare straight ahead.

“I figured. I didn’t remember them,” says my mother. “It’s a nice picture of you and Peeta together.”

I shrug. “It’s probably the only one we have.” I don’t feel the need to add _ that’s not from before the rebellion. _

“You never particularly liked cameras,” she says, smiling to herself. “The picture of your father is nice, too. And the one of Prim.”

I nod, not knowing what to say. My mother seems perfectly fine with the silence that comes over us, but it makes me uncomfortable. I want to get out of here.

“Let me see if Peeta needs help with dinner,” I say suddenly, leaving the room without another word.

Peeta frowns when I enter the kitchen. “You shouldn't be in here,” he whispers.

“I’m here to offer you my services,” I say.

“Then I won’t accept your offer. There’s really not much to do.” He smirks. “I’m making the easiest complicated dinner for a reason, you know.”

I roll my eyes. “What does that even mean?”

“It’s simple to make, but it takes a long time,” explains Peeta. _ “Therefore _, the longer you will have to yourself with your mom.”

“But I don’t want to be by myself,” I say.

“I’ve been with you all afternoon until this point. And it’s only been an hour,” he says. “You were by yourself last year when you went to Four, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t the host last year.”

“Is it really that different?”

“Yes. Is that cheese?” I say, peering into the bowl that he’s stirring.

Peeta smiles, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable. Yes, it’s cheese. Multiple cheeses, actually. I was at the market yesterday and I decided that I could splurge just this once. For your mom’s homecoming dinner.”

“How many cheeses?” I ask, trying to swipe my finger into the bowl but Peeta swiftly moves it out of my reach.

“Three. Plus some herbs,” he says. “It’s for the lasagna.”

“Is that what this is?” I say, pointing to the pot on the stove.

“Those are the noodles. But you’re stalling,” he says, sighing. “I’ll be in there as soon as I’m done.”

“Which will be...when?”

“Fifteen minutes, max,” Peeta says. “You’re okay, Katniss. And I’m right here if you need me.”

I reluctantly retreat back into the living room. It’s infuriating how well he knows me. Still, that means he knows I will hold him to his fifteen minute promise.

I’m surprised to find my mother engrossed in a book when I return, but I sit back down on the sofa without a second thought. It’s only when I glance at the coffee table that I realize its typical centerpiece is missing and is instead in my mother’s lap.

“Mom,” I say, “what are you doing?”  
  
“This is wonderful,” she responds. “You’ve done this for everyone?”

“Not quite,” I say tersely.

“‘Not quite’?” she repeats. “But there are already so many people!”

“We’re not done with it yet,” I grunt, folding my arms across my chest.

“Oh,” says my mother, though I doubt she even heard what I said. She’s utterly engrossed in the book, our book. She treats it like it’s a fascinating story she can’t put down. Which makes me want to tear it from her hands. Instead I just watch as her wide eyes devour the pages.

Peeta’s fifteen minutes pass and he comes in on the dot, just as he promised. “Sorry about that,” he says when he enters. “Took longer than I expected, but I finally got it in the oven.”

My mother doesn’t look up. “Oh, don’t worry about it,” she says.

I give Peeta a pointed expression, jerking my head in my mother’s direction as he sits down beside me. I try to mouth “she’s reading” but he just furrows his eyebrows and wraps an arm around my shoulders.

“Your illustrations are beautiful, Peeta,” says my mom.

He glances up, already smiling. “Thank you, but I don’t know what—_ oh.” _

“I must say, I never knew Boggs that well, but this drawing brings me back to Thirteen,” she continues.

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing,” I say.

“It was hard to do,” admits Peeta—he hasn’t even told me this. “Boggs was mostly involved in the memories I had to separate out. I have at least a thread of a memory from before the rebellion related to most of the other people. But I didn’t know Boggs at all before, so...it wasn’t as easy as it usually is.”

“You never mentioned,” I say quietly. “We could’ve asked the archives for a photo.”

Peeta shrugs. “Photos from Thirteen are hard to find. And anyway, it helped me. Another thing to tell Dr. Aurelius next week.”

“You _ are _fully recovered, aren’t you?” says my mother.

“Yes,” says Peeta smoothly, squeezing my shoulder as he feels it tense up. “Recovered enough to live normally.”

To my relief, she drops the subject and returns to our previous topic of conversation. “Did Boggs have a family?”

“He had a son,” I say. “I wrote that down. It should be in there.”

“Just one?”

  
“As far as I know,” I say.

“And a wife?”

I shrug. “He never mentioned one. But he probably had somebody at some point if he had a son. Maybe they died in the epidemic.”

“Mm.”

We discuss the weather differences between Four and Twelve until we’re basically just repeating one another. There’s not much to say on the topic, but somehow we draw it out for longer than we should have. Peeta asks my mother about her work at the apothecary, even though she always writes about it in her letters or brings it up on our rare phone calls. It’s something to talk about, I guess.

Finally, finally, the timer on the oven beeps and Peeta goes to retrieve the lasagna. I insist that I should set the table—I should have used that earlier as an excuse to get away earlier—and assure my mother that she needn’t bother herself with helping me.

It’s not long before all three of us are gathered around our table. I’m wondering what we’re going to talk about until Tuesday, because we’ve already nearly run out of stuff. I have nothing more to say to my mother and as far as I know, she has nothing more to contribute to me and my life. Peeta’s the only buffer keeping our dying relationship alive.

“So, do you travel much, Peeta?” says my mother. “I know Katniss can’t.”

“Well, don’t sound too upset about it,” I mutter.

“Not much, no,” answers Peeta, ignoring my grumbling. “I go to the Capitol for health evaluations every so often, but that’s it.”

“How often?” my mother asks. “Just out of curiosity.”

“I used to go twice a year, but now I only have to go once a year,” he says. “And I call doctors every month to keep them posted on what’s working for me and what isn’t.”

She nods, cutting her lasagna daintily. The tiny action nearly sends me over the edge.

“What do your evaluations consist of?”

“Well,” says Peeta, “they mostly perform psychological tests, which aren’t very...enjoyable. But they also check my prosthetic to make sure it’s fitting well and everything’s healthy.”

My mother frowns. “They only check your prosthetic once a year?”

“I’m given a week to test out the new ones at home, and if they don’t work, they promise they’ll send the doctors here, to Twelve, to fix it,” he explains. “But that hasn’t happened yet.”

“And your psychological tests? What do they consist of?”

Peeta hesitates. “Usually—”

“He’s not going to talk about it,” I interrupt. She’s crossed a boundary now. Even when it’s just Peeta and I, we never talk about what he does in the Capitol. I don’t know that much about it myself—he barely talks about it when he returns home.

“It’s okay,” says Peeta gently. “It doesn’t bother me that much.”

“Yeah, crying about it over the phone makes me think that it really doesn’t bother you,” I say before I can stop myself. He frowns at my words but doesn’t say anything.

My mother shakes her head firmly. “No,” she says. “You don’t have to tell me if it’ll trigger something.”

“It won’t, really,” he insists. “It’s just hard when it’s happening in the moment. That’s all.”

“No,” says my mother once more. “Did I tell you that I have dinner with the Odairs every Saturday night?”

I blink a few times, surprised by the extreme change of topic. Peeta’s caught off guard, too, otherwise he would have immediately jumped in with a response. Instead I just say sharply, “No.”

“Yes,” she says matter-of-factly. “Annie came by the apothecary one day and invited me over. It’s become a routine for the three of us.”

“That's nice,” says Peeta after a beat. “How old is Nick now? Three?”

Peeta and my mother go back and forth for the rest of dinner, discussing Four, talking about how Twelve has changed, explaining how the lasagna was made. There's no place for me in their conversation, so I stare at my plate and listen on and off.

My mother retires to her room shortly after dinner—it’s already nine o’clock—and Peeta and I follow suit. I trudge upstairs and collapse on the bed. I barely have the energy to change into my bedclothes, but I finally force myself off the mattress and stiffly pull my shirt off. Peeta’s already halfway redressed.

“Your mom seems to be doing well,” he comments.

“Now that she’s finally found the loving child she never had in me.”

Peeta frowns, pulling his shirt down over his head. “At least I finally found the loving mom I never had.”

We lock eyes. His are sad. Mine are angry.

“Didn’t realize she was meant to be your replacement,” I say coldly.

“She’s not,” says Peeta, his tone equally rigid. “But if she’s your mother, then she’s my mother, too, in some shape or form. And she’s a lot better than the one I had.”

“Peeta—”

“I just wish you’d try to be optimistic,” he says, climbing under the covers of our bed and sitting up. “It would be much less exhausting.”

“Less exhausting for you or me?”

“Both.”

I sigh, throwing my dirty clothes into the basket in the corner. “I'm not going to be optimistic when she looks at the book like it's a fun story! She _ knew _those people!”

“Not as well as we did,” says Peeta.

“She should still be respectful of it,” I say. “She shouldn’t just mention Boggs and then ask about his family like it means nothing to her. It means something to me.”

He looks at me sadly. “I know it does,” he says. “Just be kind, okay? Give her a chance.”

“I've given her too many chances, and she's disappointed me every time,” I mutter.

“Then give her another,” says Peeta. “It won't hurt you.”

It probably will. It always has. But I don't say that.

* * *

I get up early the next morning. Normally I go hunting after Peeta leaves for the bakery, but every once in awhile I’ll spend my mornings in the woods. Today, I feel like I _ need _to.

I hear Peeta shift as I’m about to leave. “Katniss,” he says, squinting at me through tired eyes.

“I’m going hunting,” I say, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “Tell my mom for me.”

He doesn’t protest, just nods. I probably should feel guilty for leaving my mother and Peeta alone on her first morning here, but I need space after last night. And they've already proven that they get along well. Besides, Peeta’s a much better cook than I am. Anything he makes for breakfast will be infinitely superior to what I could make.

The woods are a welcome haven, especially since my home currently has no place where I can hide away from everything and everyone. I stay there for hours, reveling in my independence. As much as I rely on others—well, Peeta and sometimes Haymitch—I still value being by myself in the place where I am and will always be the most comfortable.

I return home with three squirrels. My mother is sitting in our living room, reading a book she brought from Four. She told Peeta about it last night. I put the squirrels in the freezer before I join her.

“I can make lunch, if you want,” I offer, sitting down in a chair next to her. “Sandwiches or something.”

“I’m alright for now,” she says. “Peeta made a big breakfast.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, is there anything you'd like to do today?”

She thinks for a moment before she answers. “I'd like to go around the district. See how things have changed.”

We’ve barely begun our walk when we’re approached by a young woman, who excitedly comes up to my mother and tells her that she saved her husband’s life, and does she remember her? My mom, to my surprise, recognizes her and asks how her husband, Davey, is doing now. How she recalls these things and these people’s names is beyond me, especially after all of the lives she’s saved and people she’s helped. But I suppose each person’s life has equal meaning to her.

Davey’s wife invites my mother over to come see her family some time; even all these years later, they want to properly thank her. She describes how to reach her house and what it looks like, and my mother happily agrees to come visit. It’s almost as if I’m not there—the woman doesn’t acknowledge me whatsoever. Not that it puts me off, but it’s odd. I used to be so accustomed to being ignored but now, after everything, it’s an unfamiliar sensation.

“So when did Peeta reopen the bakery?” asks my mother when her new friend has left us.

“A year and a half ago, I think,” I say. “It took some time to purchase a new plot of land and build it, but he was one of the first shops in town to open.”

My mother hums in response.

“It’s not exactly where it used to be,” I say. I’m rambling now, nervous about being alone with my mother again. “He didn't want it to be. He asked for a plot of land that was nearby but not the same spot.”

She nods, and I can tell she’s doing what I’ve done so many times: try and fail to remember what the town looked like before. She lived here almost twenty-five years longer than I did, yet the look on her face tells me that even she can’t recall the buildings in the square.

“We had a dance hall,” says my mother abruptly. “The town kids did. It burned down a little while after Haymitch’s Games. No one ever rebuilt it.”

“Did Haymitch go dancing?” I say, amused by the thought of him twirling some girl around.

“Yes. With his girlfriend,” she tells me, then shakes her head.

“She was killed, wasn’t she?”

My mother nods, and we continue walking solemnly. After a few moments she adds, “The dance hall was the only place where Seam and town kids could meet up without judgement. The people from town were in control, but nobody from the Seam was ever turned away. If it was still around, it would've been where you and Peeta met up.”

“I don't know about that,” I say awkwardly. “Did Haymitch’s girlfriend live in town?”

“Yes,” she says. “She wasn't like us, though. I remember wondering at the time what he saw in her after he had seen the Capitol and won more money than any of us could've imagined. But I guess I understand it now.” I’m not sure what she means by that, but before I can ask she spots another one of her friends who used to live a few doors down from us in the Seam. I stand their uncomfortably as they greet each other warmly. Her friend invites her over for tea anytime she wishes, and my mom tells her she’ll come by sometime before she leaves.

“Is the bakery very large?” she says, abandoning the subject of the dance hall.

“No,” I say. “There’s the shop area and then the back room with a few ovens.”

“That’s all?”

“I mean, Peeta has an office,” I say. “But I guess the whole place is a lot smaller than it was. Probably because he doesn’t live above it.”

“There aren’t any apartments?”

“He didn’t want to completely recreate the old bakery,” I say. “And not many people live above the stores anymore.”

My mother looks around, surprised by this revelation. “They’re all one-story.”

“Everyone lives where the Seam used to be,” I explain. “We’re not separated anymore.”

“You are,” she points out.

I almost refute that, but I realize she’s somewhat right. I don’t consider myself to be divided from the other people who came back to Twelve, but there’s no denying the geographical separation of the entire district and Victor’s Village.

The bakery comes into view and my mother compliments its exterior, admiring the cakes they’ve chosen to put on display. When we go inside, she speaks to Rory while Peeta comes around to our side of the counter to talk to me.

“I’m glad you came today,” he says softly. “I think it’s good for you two.”

“I guess.” I pause, watching her conversation. “She ran into a few people she knew today and promised to visit them in the next few days.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” says Peeta. “Maybe you won’t have to get up so early to go hunting and have your alone time. You can just go after breakfast while she’s gone.”

His words knock the wind out of me. I feel guilty about leaving him alone this morning, but at the same time I needed that time to myself. And I’m glad I had it—otherwise I’d definitely be on-edge and uncomfortable during this walk.

“Sorry,” I say quietly, though I can’t decide if I mean it or not.

“It’s okay,” he says immediately. “It was fine. But I think she missed you.”

I pretend that I didn’t hear his last statement and instead tell him what my mother told me about Haymitch’s girlfriend. “I wonder if we remind him of himself,” says Peeta, which didn’t even occur to me. Though my mother did draw the connections herself, when she said that the dance hall would be the only place where Peeta and I would truly be accepted. 

“Maybe,” I say. “It’s weird how we never really had to deal with that divide.”

He agrees after a moment. I don’t press him on it, because a customer has come in and I think I scare them away. Peeta kisses my cheek quickly and promises to bring home some sort of dessert.

He does not disappoint. I cook a stew, he brings home a hummingbird cake, and the three of us feast until we can eat no more. My mother comments on how much Twelve has Capitolized. Peeta tells her all about the rebuilding and reconstruction and restoration. I chime in to mention how he hired Gale’s brothers when he heard they’d be out of work when the construction ended.

“You’d have done the same thing,” says Peeta, shrugging.

“Yeah, but I actually know them,” I point out.

“We worked on a few sites together,” he says passively.

Gale wrote Peeta a letter after his brothers had been hired, thanking him for giving them work. Peeta didn’t seem to understand it, but I appreciated it because I know how Gale feels about being indebted to people. Now with Gale’s steady salary from Two and Rory’s and Vick’s wages from working for Peeta, the Hawthornes are stable, something they have probably never experienced. I see Hazelle every once in while at the market, or when we’re both at the bakery at the same time, but we haven’t kept in touch very much. I get along fine with Rory and Vick, though, and Posy’s grown up quite a bit.

Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve been like if Gale had come home with his family, but then I just get confused and don’t know how to feel. Deep within me, I know that there was no chance he ever would have returned after he had seen what more of the world had to offer.

Rory told Peeta a few weeks ago that Gale has a fiancée now. I keep trying to bring myself to write him a letter to congratulate him, but every time I’ve sat down to do it I can’t do it. There’s something between us now that will never go away; right now, I don’t have the energy to overcome it.

I do give my mother the Hawthornes’ new address, though, in case she wants to visit Hazelle and Posy sometime.

* * *

After my mother goes to bed, Peeta suggests that we work on the book. It takes at least fifteen minutes for me to find the pen I always write with—Peeta insists on consistency. By the time I'm done, he’s already pasted his sketch of Boggs onto the page.

“Should I get started on someone else?” he asks, as I wave my pen victoriously.

“I can’t think of anyone else,” I say.

“Neither can I.”

“I guess we’re running out of people,” I say.

Peeta smiles. “That’s good, isn’t it?” I shrug.

Somehow he occupies himself with his sketchpad as I try to think back to Boggs and the war. All that I can remember vividly enough to write about is his death, how his legs were blown off and how he died in his own pool of blood. From that memory, the only thing I can write about is how he transferred the Holo, but besides that….

“This isn't as bad as I thought it would be,” I say, mostly to interrupt my own thoughts.

“Well, thank you for that vote of confidence,” says Peeta, amused. “I told you, if you want me to change it, I can.”

“What? I don't mean your picture of Boggs,” I say. “It's fine.”

He laughs. “Just ‘fine’?”

“I meant my mom's visit,” I say in a low voice, in case she can hear us. “Today was okay.”

“But was it _ ‘fine’?” _

I glare at him.

“I'm glad,” he says seriously. “Do you two have any plans for tomorrow?”

“I think she just wanted to visit some of her old friends. I didn't realize she had so many that came back,” I say.

“There were only two, right?”

“Two’s a crowd in my mind.”

Peeta grins again and turns back to whatever he's working on. I jot down quick thoughts about when the Holo was transferred since that's the only mildly positive thing I can think of. I don't think Peeta would appreciate it if I wrote about how Boggs told me to kill him.

“Katniss, I need to tell you something.”

I look up immediately, startled to find Peeta looking almost ashamed.

“I was thinking a lot about what you said earlier. About Haymitch's girlfriend,” he says slowly. “And then what you said. About us not having to worry about us being from different places.”

“Yeah.”

“I just….” He sighs. “I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't—”

“You can tell me,” I say softly, “if it'll help.”

“It's not that big of a deal,” says Peeta quickly. “When we got back from the first Games, and we had our houses, I was trying to get my family to move in with me. My brothers wanted to, and my dad probably wanted to, too, but my mom insisted she'd never live with me again. After all the things I had said about being in love with you, she...I don't know, she just hated it. Even though saying those things had helped me stay alive, she was so horrified by what they implied that she didn’t let anyone in my family from living with me.”

“Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn't know.”

He reaches forward to take my hand and kisses my knuckles. “You had no way of knowing. I never told you for a reason,” he says. “I was still mad about what you'd said that last day on the train. I didn't know how to feel about you, or winning, or anything. And in the midst of that I had to deal with my mother cursing me and my brothers and you, especially you. Honestly, she'd probably have been happier if you had just left me to die rather than have me tell the whole country that my father had been in love with your mother.”

“I forgot about that.”

“She never did,” Peeta says. “But...Katniss, I didn't defend myself against her. I didn't defend my brothers either, even though they had done nothing except want to move in with me, and I didn't defend you when she said awful things. I just stood there and didn't say anything.”

His face has taken on the pained expression that I only ever see when he gets frustrated at himself after he’s had a flashback. “I don't know why I felt like I needed to tell you this,” he says. “I’d forgotten about it, and then it came to my mind when you said that earlier today….”

I close the book and crawl over to him on the couch. “I'm glad you told me,” I say gently.

* * *

My mom knocks on the door of my bedroom while I’m changing clothes the next morning. Peeta left after breakfast, leaving me to make small talk with my mother in the kitchen before we both awkwardly retreated to our rooms. “I just wanted to say goodbye before I leave!” she calls.

“You can come in,” I say, pulling on my socks. It’s raining outside, so I doubt I’ll go hunting. If my mother’s gone, I’ll probably just exist around the house like I usually do when we don't have houseguests.

She enters and fixates her eyes on something behind me; finally, she asks, “Are those Peeta’s?”

I have no idea what she’s talking about at first, but then I realize she’s pointing to his dirty clothes in a basket in the corner. “Oh, yeah,” I say. “We haven’t done laundry this week.”

She just nods. “Well, I’m off.”

“Who are you visiting?”

“I thought I'd stop by and see Hazelle. I don’t know if I’ll be back for lunch.”

“I’ll be here,” I say, giving her a weak smile.

* * *

Friday passes and we all sleep late on Saturday. I’m still tired, though; for some reason I kept tossing and turning last night, and I don’t think I was able to fall asleep until around three in the morning.

Peeta makes the three of us a nice breakfast, and my mother and I retreat into the living room with our tea while he offers to clean up the dishes. She and I settle into a nice, useless back-and-forth conversation about the weather and how it might have been affecting my sleep, when suddenly—

“I noticed that you share a bed with Peeta.”

I look up from my mug. “Yes,” I say. “Astute observation,” I add before I can stop myself.

Peeta must have heard, because the clanging of dishes in the kitchen has stopped.

“That's not very wise,” she continues.

“I don't care if it's not very wise,” I say immediately. “You have no right to come into my home and judge what I do—”

“Katniss,” she says calmly. “I’ve seen how this plays out in the end. Nobody comes out on the other side changed for the better.”

I'm fuming now, my fists clenched. “Don’t come into my house and tell me what to do—”

“Nothing good will come of it.”

“I don't care if—”

“You are could_ ruin _your life, Katniss.”

Peeta rushes in at that moment, probably to defuse the situation, but I'm already on my feet.

“You have no power to tell me what to do!” I yell. “You’ve abandoned me _ twice _ now when I needed you most! I've had to take care of myself _ twice _ and nurse myself back to life _ twice _while you were too busy saving your own skin and forgetting that Prim and I exist!”

“Katniss,” says Peeta gently, touching my arm and trying to direct me back to the couch. I elbow myself out of his reach and march out the door.

He doesn't pursue me. I walk quickly in the direction of the woods, but my feet change course at the last second and I let myself into Haymitch’s house. It reaks, but surprisingly, he’s conscious. Maybe because it’s only ten in the morning, but even that is no guarantee with him.

“Long time no see, huh?” he says when he sees me, raising the beer in his hand in my direction as a greeting. He sits in a rocking chair by the fireplace. “What’s finally brought you around? Lover Boy gone mad again?”

“Don’t say that,” I snap. “If you were sober you wouldn’t make jokes like that and maybe people would actually like you.”

“And maybe people would actually like you if you were drunk,” he says, chuckling to himself.

I settle myself down in a chair in the kitchen. “You’re not funny.”

Haymitch shrugs.

“My mother’s here,” I say. “I took her around the district.”

“Looks a little different than how she remembers it.”

“She told me about some dance hall you used to have,” I say. “And your girlfriend.”

He just stares straight ahead.

“I knew you had one,” I continue for some reason. “I didn’t realize she was from town.” I take a breath. “It’s like me and Peeta, isn’t it? A merchant with someone from the Seam.”

“A little different. A different time,” he says, though his voice is distant.

“It wasn’t always a different time,” I say, thinking of what Peeta told me about his mother. “Why do you never talk about her? Or your family?”

Haymitch shrugs. “I’ve drowned it out.”

“You’ve never talked to anyone about it?”

“Didn’t have anyone to talk to.”

“Peeta would be outraged,” I remark. “He’s always trying to get me into therapy.”

“It helps him.”

“Wouldn’t help me.”

He sighs. “So what are you pissed about?”

I settle myself in the chair next to him at his dining table. “Who says I’m pissed?”

“You only ever come here when Peeta’s made you mad because of one of his..._ heroic declarations.” _

“‘Heroic declarations’?”

“Whenever he shows that he cares about you and it freaks you out,” says Haymitch. “Have a drink.”

I accept the bottle he offers me but don't take a sip. “I might be angry, but it's not about Peeta,” I say. “I mean, it's about him, not at him. I'm not here to talk about that, though.”

“Oh, really?” he says. “You'd rather talk about my dead family?”

That doesn't make me sound much better. 

“They killed everyone I loved because I humiliated them,” says Haymitch finally. “I came home and then my home was gone.”

“That’s what I’ve always been afraid of,” I say shakily. “And everyone...Peeta keeps trying to tell me that everything’s okay, that people aren’t going to die like they did, but—” I gasp suddenly and realize I’m crying. “—I can’t believe him because people dying is all I've ever known. And I'm always scared that someday he'll never come home, like my dad, and then I'll turn into my mother and lock down and never be able to come back into the world because I have nobody left to bring me back to life….”

“Cheers to that,” he says, clinging another bottle against the one he gave me. I didn't even notice that he'd gotten another. Haymitch takes a swig of his drink, whatever it even is. “Peeta's trying to get you to have kids again, isn't he?”

“No,” I say coldly, swallowing the burning in my throat. I hate crying. “He hasn't—_ no. _It’s...my mom. This whole time she's been around, I've been on-edge, and then today she told me my life was going to be ruined because I'm having sex before I’m married.”

He snorts.

“I just don't understand how she feels the authority to say that to me in my own house when it's the first time she's come home since the war,” I say. “Peeta’s the one who helped me, not her.”

“You know, sometimes I think your mother and I are more alike than we realize,” he says, “in that we are _ both _disturbed by the thought of you having sex—”

I stand, pushing the chair I was sitting in into the table. “You know what? Piss off.” I make sure to slam his front door before I stalk off in the direction of the woods. Sometimes I wonder why fleeing to Haymitch’s is my first instinct.

I pass the fence—there are plans to take it down but they haven’t gotten around to it yet—and head towards the spot where I still stow my bow. It’s not like I need to hide it anymore, but it’s the habit I’ve had for as long as I’ve been in the woods. And it’s nice to sometimes slip back into feeling like the world is how it used to be, when I was actually in control of my future and my family and my fate. But a familiar face is in front of my home base in the woods, sitting on a log and looking around.

“Katniss,” says Peeta, rising to his feet, “I know you’re probably—”

“I don’t want to talk,” I say, moving away from him and straying from my usual path.

“I don’t know where you’ve been, but I think you need to talk,” he says sternly.

“I went to see Haymitch.”

“And?”

“And then I left.”

“Yeah, well, Haymitch isn’t going to say anything prolific,” says Peeta.

“And you are?”

“Probably not. But I’m going to try.” He grins. “Just because it’s your instinct to run away every time conflict comes your way doesn’t mean you should,” he says. “You need to be able to express yourself to your mom without getting so riled up.”

“I’m not like you,” I say, stomping on a stray limb on the ground. “I’m not good with words. I don’t fix my problems face-to-face. I just let them…simmer down.”

“Then they’re still there,” he says. “Avoiding what’s bothering you won’t resolve anything. It just buries it further down.”

I sigh, and we walk on in silence for a few minutes. “Why do you have to be so _ noble?” _I say eventually.

“I’m not trying to be, I’m just trying to—”

“—help me!” I finish angrily. “I know! I get it! But the way I feel about my mother is beyond—it’s so—it’s reached a point where it can’t change. And I don’t want it to. Okay? I don’t need your meddling. My mom and I...we’re fine where we are.”

Peeta shakes his head. “You just stormed out of the house. Yeah, I think you're fine where you are.”

I glare at him. “I don’t need your help,” I insist.

“That’s fine. It doesn’t have to be from me. But you _ do _need help. Your mother’s gotten it, and that’s one of the things about her that ticks you off so much,” says Peeta. “You don’t even have to do therapy or anything like that. You can just...I don’t know. Do you remember that journal you started writing in last year? After you came back from Four?”

“That lasted about a week before I got sick of it.”

“Maybe you can return to it. Use it to sort through your anger towards your mom, or just how you feel in general,” he suggests. “Nothing too complicated.”

“I don’t write, though,” I say. “That’s not my thing.”

“Calling the Capitol doctors once a month isn’t my thing, either, but I still do it because I know it will help me,” Peeta says firmly, his voice betraying his hidden frustration with me. He catches himself, then calmly adds, “You write in the book, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but that’s writing about people,” I say. “That’s different from writing about how much my mom pisses me off.”

Peeta takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. I can tell he’s annoyed by my stubbornness, but I’m not going to acquiesce.

“Look,” says Peeta, his voice colder than it usually is, “I understand that you and your mom have a long history. I really do. But things were going so well these past few days, and then your mom says this one thing and suddenly all of the progress you’ve made towards a stronger relationship has completely been thrown out the window.”

“Did you not hear what she said?” I say incredulously.

“I did.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

“She’s just from a different time, Katniss,” he says, almost weakly. “All she ever knew was that people sleeping together before they married only caused problems.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like—I mean, we’re not only—” I hate talking about this. This is something I barely discuss with him; much less am I willing to discuss it with my mother. “We’re not _ only _sleeping together to have sex.”

Peeta nods seriously. “No, that’s not the only reason.” Then he loses it and his face breaks into a grin. “That really took a lot out of you to say, didn’t it?”

“Oh, shut it,” I say, and I can feel my face burning. “She doesn’t understand. And she won’t understand because she refuses to see it how we see it.”

“And how do we see it?”

I pause before I answer. “If I’m supposed to give this appeal to my mom I’d rather not give it twice,” I say, mostly because I have no idea. How am I supposed to talk about the nightmares Peeta and I both still have when I’ve been trying to prove how recovered we are this whole time? And how am I supposed to use that to justify everything else that’s naturally happened in our bed?

“So you’ll talk to her?”

“I guess. If you let me stay in the woods a little while longer.”

“I’ll go back,” says Peeta, reaching for my hand and kissing me lightly. “Come home soon, okay? She’s your mom, not mine.”

I nod, though a pang of guilt stabs me in my stomach. I’ve left both Peeta and my mother in the lurch too many times in the past few days. They both have handled it gracefully enough, but there’s still a tenseness in the air when I return to the room after being gone for too long.

Peeta’s fingers release mine and he turns to head back to the Meadow. I stand still until the sound of his heavy footsteps have faded away. We walked pretty far into the woods while we were talking, so I hope Peeta doesn’t get lost on his way back. Having lived with me for years now, he’s no novice in the woods, but he also doesn’t have the same ten years of familiarity as I have.

I don’t have the energy to hunt right now. In my anger at Peeta, I didn’t stop to pick up my bow and I don’t feel like going back to retrieve it. Instead, I find a patch of ground that is barely damp from last night’s rain and lay down. I stare at the patches of sky that shine through the leaves above me before I close my eyes, breathing in the lightly humid air. I should probably leave soon, but I like laying here, watching the clouds shift and feeling the occasional breeze across my face….

I don’t know how much time has passed when I wake up. I can tell it’s not evening, probably mid- or late afternoon, but dark storm clouds have appeared in the sky that weren’t there when I dozed off. I hurl myself off the ground and walk back in the direction of the district quickly. Peeta probably won’t worry—he knows how easily I can get distracted in the woods—but he probably will be annoyed that I didn’t come home for so long.

“You’re back,” says Peeta, meeting me at the door as I slide my shoes off.

“Yeah,” I say. “What time is it?”

“Half past three,” he says. “I got back around noon.”

“Oh” is all I say. He stands there expectantly, waiting for me to fill him in on where I’ve been, but I don’t elaborate.

He shakes his head ever-so-slightly and turns back towards the kitchen. “Your mother’s on the back porch,” he says coolly, walking away from me. “I’m going to go invite Haymitch over for dinner.”

Haymitch coming over will just make everything worse, I think, but it’s a good idea in theory. To distract me.

I stand in the living room. The mug of tea that I was drinking earlier still sits on the table where I placed it. It’s cold now, but I take a sip anyway. I hear Peeta sigh as he shuffles through the kitchen and wait until he’s left through the front door to visit Haymitch before I move again.

I slip outside and sit in the chair adjacent to my mom’s. She looks up and smiles lightly before facing the backyard again.

Our backyard is boring. There’s a porch, an outside fireplace that Peeta and I hardly use, and two trees. Whenever we go outside together, it’s usually on the front porch. Peeta installed a swing there last year and loves to sit in it after dinner as the sun is setting. Sometimes Haymitch even wanders over and joins us, plopping himself down on the steps.

We sit there for at least ten minutes before I volunteer, “Sorry I keep running away.”

My mother looks up in surprise. “Running away?” she says.

“To the woods.”

“You've always done that,” she says.

I don't say anything, confused by her reaction.

“I didn't mean to offend you earlier,” she says. “I was just offering you some advice.”

Advice I didn't need, but I hold my tongue.

She takes a deep breath. “Marriage,” says my mother slowly, “is a declaration of devotion between two parties.” I want to interrupt and make fun of her formal definition, but I stop myself and wait for her to continue. “Before marriage, nothing is quite as valid. A woman especially cannot be certain that her partner won’t leave her, even if she is pregnant. I’ve seen it happen too many times. I’m just...worried about you.”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” I say firmly. “Peeta and I are already practically married. It might not be legally official, but we just haven’t found the need to go to the Justice Building yet. But we depend on each other. I don’t...I can’t see….” I stop. “He’ll never leave me, or walk away from me, or push me out. He never has. _ Ever _. And I don’t think he will if I suddenly get pregnant. Which I won’t, but if I were to….”

My mother smiles. “He’d be more excited than you.” She hesitates. “I just want to warn you. It...I suppose it….”

“You’re from a different time,” I say. “When you were our age, sleeping around meant trouble. I’ve seen it, too. But I’m too young to have kids, even if we were married. And we’ve taken things to prevent it.” Suddenly I feel like I’ve said too much, so I add, “But most of the time we just sleep together because it’s comforting to know that somebody else is there. Because of the nightmares that we get. From the Games. And the rebellion. But it’s just like we did after—” I was going to bring up the Victory Tour, but I cut myself off before I say too much again. I’m already blushing—this type of discussion is not my forte—and suddenly I want nothing else but dinner, even if Haymitch is there.

“I’m going to see if Peeta’s back. He invited Haymitch for dinner,” I say abruptly, standing. I don’t want to sit here anymore, avoiding my mother’s eyes and instead watching the incredibly boring landscape of our backyard. I guess I should encourage Peeta to liven it up, since my taste in design and decoration is so awful.

He’s in the kitchen, washing out the remains of my cold tea. “Hi,” I say calmly.

He looks up as if he didn’t see me, then turns off the faucet. “Hi,” he says. “Everything settled?”

“I guess,” I say. “Everything settled with…?”

“He’ll come around six,” says Peeta. “He stopped drinking after you left. You must have knocked some sense into him.”

“Not really,” I say.

“Are you going to tell me where you were?” he says suddenly. “Or do you expect me to completely disregard the fact that you came home three hours later than you told me you would?”

My head shoots up sharply. “I fell asleep,” I say angrily. “You may not have noticed, but I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“You also have a bed you can sleep in,” says Peeta icily.

“Well, clearly I don’t sleep very well in it if I sleep better outside,” I say.

He opens his mouth to say something and closes it, apparently deciding that it’s better to drop the subject altogether.

“We should fix the backyard,” I say.

Peeta looks at me, confused. “Is it broken?”

“No,” I say, “it’s boring. There’s nothing there.”

“Neither of us ever spend time out there.”

“We could.”

“Okay,” he sighs, throwing a dishtowel over his shoulder.

I go up to our bedroom and stay there until Haymitch comes, at which point I somehow drag myself off the bed and come downstairs. Peeta’s in a completely different mood, my mother is cheery, and Peeta was right—Haymitch doesn't seem too drunk. Maybe he did need to talk about his “dead family” after all. 

Dinner isn’t unbearable. At least, it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. Peeta and my mother keep the conversation going most of the time, either talking about things around the district or interrogating Haymitch about his geese. After dinner, I quickly volunteer to wash the dishes while everyone else goes out to the front porch. Peeta waits a moment, watching me closely, before he follows them out the door.

There’s a burning sensation in my throat again as I restrain a sob. I don’t know why I want to cry. Maybe it’s something about having dinner with Peeta and Haymitch and my mother, like we did before the Quell. Maybe it’s seeing everyone getting along. Or maybe I’m just exhausted.

When I finally join them outside, Haymitch is talking about some sort of book. “Are you writing an autobiography or something?” I say, sitting down in the doorway. “Following Plutarch’s footsteps?”

“What?” says Haymitch.

“Did you not get a signed copy sent to your h—”

“He’s going to help us with the book,” interrupts Peeta.

“What?” I say sharply. “The book?”

“Is that okay, sweetheart?” says Haymitch. “Or are you too protective—”

“Stop,” interrupts Peeta, shooting Haymitch a warning look. “I figured he would have more people than we do. At least forty-six.”

“Tributes,” I realize. “And your family, too. And friends.”

My mother watches us happily and I realize I forgot she was out here. “Mom,” I say. “Do you have anyone you want to add?”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, no,” she says, waving a hand. “I don't have to.”

“But there are people from your healing, aren't there?” I say. “The ones you couldn't help. You remember their names, don't you?”

She swallows. “I wish I didn't. But only some.”

“You could still write about them,” says Peeta. “Just what you remember about their stories or their families or why they needed your help. And if you can't remember, you can just write down their name.”

“I don't know,” she says. “It's _ your _book. To help you.”

I shake my head. “That's not the only reason. We just...don't want to forget the details that shouldn't be forgotten.”

“Alright,” she agrees. I notice that she sits up a little straighter after that. I recognize it because I’ve felt what was weighing her down before: it’s the weight of feeling like you need to carry people’s stories and livelihoods on your shoulders.

* * *

“Did you apologize to her?”

Peeta and I are in bed—finally, because it feels like this day has lasted too long. I pause before I answer, trying to think back to the conversation. Did I apologize? “I explained myself,” I say. “And she explained herself.”

“Did she apologize?”

“Kind of.”

“And you didn’t?”

She was the one attacking me, I want to say, but I don’t respond.

“It’s a start,” says Peeta, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and pulling me closer to him. 

“Why did you invite Haymitch?”

He doesn't reply at first. “I've been thinking about him a lot lately. Just about what your mother told you,” he explains. “We should spend more time with him.”

“He’d kill you if he heard you say that,” I say, but it reminds me of what Haymitch said earlier today. About me only coming to him when I’m mad.

“Really,” says Peeta seriously. “He’s been lonely for almost thirty years. He saved our lives. The least we can do is try to make his better.”

I bite my lip. “I don’t know if he’d like that,” I say honestly. “Maybe from you, but I don’t think I—”

“You’re both too similar for your own good,” he says, shaking his head a bit. “He enjoys having you around, even if he doesn’t admit it.”

“I don’t know about that,” I say.

“I do,” he says insistently. “We’ll do something. Maybe he can help us improve the backyard.”

“I find it hard to believe he’ll ever be excited about that,” I say.

“If he’s drunk, maybe. Sober’s a different story,” says Peeta. “I’ll bring it up to him.”

“Okay.”

“You really worried me when you were gone this afternoon,” he admits softly.

“I know my way around the woods,” I say, suddenly defensive.

“I know,” says Peeta. “Still….”

My right hand fiddles with his left. “Sorry,” I say.

He takes a deep breath. He’s been doing that a lot lately, I realize. Probably because I’m such a hard person to be around all the time.

  
“Just...don’t do it again, okay?” he says. “I trust you, and I know that you know your way around, but….”

“I won’t,” I promise. “Not if you’re waiting.”

That seems to satisfy him, at least for now. “Okay,” Peeta says gently. Then he adds, “I found your old journal.”

“What?” I say, surprised. “Where?”

“It was in your favorite closet to hide in,” he says. “There are still a lot of blank pages.”

“Did you read it?” I say sharply, horrified at the thought of his eyes seeing what I wrote.

He frowns. “Of course I didn’t. It’s yours. All that I noticed were the empty pages.”

“Oh,” I say. “Where’d you put it?”

“It’s on top of the dresser. So you’re going to use it?”

“I might,” I say, “once my mother leaves. If I need to...process.”

“I know that you get really frustrated with her,” says Peeta slowly, “but if you think about it, you're the reason she’s doing so well.” I don't understand, but he continues. “You helped bring about this new world where she can...thrive.”

I snort. “She seems to be the only one thriving.”

“That’s not true,” he says. “Everyone’s benefitting from the changes that wouldn't have been possible without you, Katniss. The families that come to the bakery, your mom, Annie...even Johanna. There are more opportunities for people to take care of themselves in ways they never would have been able to.”

“I didn’t _ invent _therapy.”

Peeta sighs. “You’re always hung up on therapy. That’s not what I'm saying. I’m trying to say that _ you _helped make the world a better place, which in turn allowed people like your mom to get the help they needed. And—” He pauses, gauging my reaction to his words before he continues. “Last summer, when you visited your mom, you were almost sad to see how far she’d come. Now you're letting your anger get in the way of your relationship.”

“Because she didn’t come back for me!” I hiss, sitting up. “She only ever wrote letters asking how I was doing! She didn't care enough to actually see! Why wouldn’t I be angry? What about—why should I even try to have a relationship with her after that? Why do I even bother?”

“Katniss,” he says warningly.

“Where was she when I needed her? Off living in this new world that now you're saying I opened up to her and everyone else except myself!” I exclaim, waving my hands. “Meanwhile I was the only one living in reality, _ hurting _ and _ mourning _while my mom was busy living in her own delusion in a district on the other side of the nation!”

“Katniss. Stop it.” Peeta places his hand around my wrist and slowly lowers my arm to the ground. “I just want to help you,” he says, his voice breaking a little, “so don't take this the wrong way, but...you’re jealous of your mother.” When I don't say anything angrily, he keeps going. “You don't like seeing her succeed or seeing her content because you don't think you're there yet. And you don't think you ever will be.”

“No,” I agree.

“I'm not saying you're there already,” he says quickly, “but I think you're farther along than you realize. Because...this new age that we live in allows everyone to heal the way they need to. Your mother needed space. Annie needed counseling. I needed doctors. So did Johanna. And I know you didn’t have much of a choice in where you ended up, but in the end, all you needed was time to grieve and time to move on. The world that you helped create is what allowed everyone to recover. Yet you resent your mom because her way of healing is different from yours and didn't involve you. I know you said you're so angry that she abandoned you that you don't want a relationship with her, but I think you really do. Even after my mother said awful things to me, I kept coming back to her. I kept trying to help her, because she was my family. You’re the same way, I think. You just need to realize that you don’t need to be jealous of her progress.”

I swallow. “I don't want to be jealous of her,” I admit, laying down again. “I just...I felt so abandoned by her, and then when I saw she was doing so well….”

He rubs my back gently. “I know,” he says gently. “I know.”

We stay like that for a few minutes, exhausted by our conversation. Everyday he asks quietly, “Did you really mean what you said to your mother? About us being married?”

My eyes widen. “Did she tell you?” I say, surprised. I’m not angry, just alarmed that my mother and Peeta have been talking about me. Though, now that I think about it, it’s not that unlikely, considering how much I’ve left the two of them alone together.

“No,” he says. “I heard. I thought you’d be done, or finishing up, when I got back from Haymitch’s. I wanted to give you two some privacy and some time to—”

“Yes,” I interrupt quickly. “I did mean it. The marriage thing.”

I can almost feel the warmth radiating from his smile with my head resting on his shoulder. “And to think,” says Peeta happily, “that you used to say you never would.”

“I don’t...I...I’m not….” I stammer for a few moments—I don’t have Peeta’s way with words—so instead I just lean up and kiss him.

“Not right now,” I add, pulling away after a few seconds. “I mean, we could. But…I think we should wait.”

“Katniss, you know that I’d wait forever.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s not going to be forever,” I say, a smile playing at my own lips as my fingers play with the hem of his shirt. “That’s not what I’m asking. Just a little longer. A little more time.”

He props himself up with one arm while his other hand tangles itself in my hair. “Sounds good to me.” He presses his lips to mine again and suddenly my exhaustion and exasperation from the day disappears. 

* * *

My mother visits with a lot of her friends on Sunday and Monday. It’s my fault—I’ve probably scared her off—but I don’t know how I would broach the issue with her. _ Are you avoiding me because of the things I said to you when you criticized my living situation? _I can’t imagine it going over very well.

Tuesday comes and it’s my job to walk with my mother to the station. Peeta goes to the bakery early, waiting to say goodbye to my mom before he leaves but making sure to get out of the house before I can hold him back.

With no Peeta to carry her suitcase, my mom suggests that she and I carry it between us. I agree without thinking and quickly regret it.

“What all did you pack in here?” I ask when we take a break halfway on our way to the station.

“I didn’t know how long I’d be staying,” she says.

“You said you were leaving today.”

“That was my plan,” she says. “But I didn’t know if I’d need to stay longer.”

Something about the way she said that makes me not ask anymore questions. Not another word passes between us until we reach the station and they’re calling for her to board.

“Well, this is goodbye,” says my mother, pursing her lips. “You’ll call, won’t you?”

“I always do,” I say.

“Not always,” she says bluntly. “I was worried about how you’d be before I came. But now, seeing you these past few days...I realized you’re okay. I don’t think you realize it, though.”

“What?”

She shakes her head quickly. “Oh, forget I said anything. It’s silly.”

“No,” I say. “What is it? What do you mean?”

“You’re coping better than you act like you are,” she says. “With your book. And your hunting. And Peeta. I was skeptical, but….” She sighs, her eyes watering. “I always knew you were a capable woman, Katniss. But seeing the way you handle yourself and your relationship and your house—”

“Peeta takes care of most of the house,” I interrupt for some reason.

“—made me realize that I’ve been underestimating you,” she finishes, reaching up to cup my cheek. “You’ll understand one day. When you have children of your own. What it’s like to feel useless when you think your children need you the most. What it’s like to realize that they were able to take care of themselves better than you could have the whole time.”

“Mom,” I say, taking her hand off my cheek. She and I are both startled by my action. “I don’t...I’m still not ‘coping’ well. And if it seems like I am...I don’t know how I fooled you. Peeta’s the one who has his life together. He’s just dragging me behind him and I’m doing a really bad job keeping up.”

My mother shakes her head again, smiling sadly. “You need to give yourself more credit, Katniss,” she says. “He told me that the book was your idea. And you started hunting by yourself, without prompting.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Things are looking up,” she says. “For both of us.”

“Yeah,” I say again, trying to swallow the burning feeling that is creeping into my throat. “Yeah, okay.”

She hugs me quickly and turns away, dragging her suitcase behind her. I stand in the station until her train has left, thinking about what she said. She’s only physically recognizable to the woman I lived with five years ago. The confident, slightly timid, yet bold woman who is my mother is unfamiliar to me. Unfamiliar in a good way, I decide.

I stop by the bakery on my way home after convincing myself that I deserve some sort of pastry for my labor carrying the suitcase.

“It really wasn’t that heavy,” insists Peeta when I tell him about it. I scowl at him for degrading my strength, and he hands me a croissant over the counter separating us. “How did it go, though?”

“Fine,” I say shortly. “It was nice.”

“Nice?” he repeats. “That’s not what I was expecting.”

“Me neither,” I admit. “And I never thought I’d say this about the woman who was my mother five years ago, but she’s changed for the better.”

I notice Peeta’s dazed smile and interrupt him out of his reverie. “What are you thinking about?” I ask.

“It’s like what I was saying the other day, isn’t it?” he says. “How much the world has changed. And your mom’s changed with it, for the better. But, if you think about it, if the world had never changed, if I had gone on working at my parents’ bakery and you went on to work at the mines, your relationship with your mother would be the least of your problems.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“The problems we have now are small in comparison to the things we faced when we were younger,” continues Peeta. “You probably thought you’d be worried about food for the rest of your life. I probably thought I would never speak to a certain girl.” He grins. “Everything that used to plague us and worry us and keep us up at night isn’t a problem anymore. I guess we’re lucky in that way. ”

“Lucky,” I echo. It’s a word I never thought could describe me, but I suppose he’s right. The things in our lives have fallen into place and led us to this very moment. We’re both alive. We’ve invoked, witnessed, and evaded death, somehow managing to survive every near encounter with it. We have a house, we have more money than we will ever need, we have our own crafts. We help each other. We need each other. We have each other.

My mom is right. Things are looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I’ll be exploring the themes introduced here more in future chapters. Also, although the story will still be told through Katniss’s perspective, I promise that I will also focus on Peeta and not just Katniss’s demons. At this point, she's not completely ignorant to his struggles but he prefers to handle his by himself, which is why I haven't covered them as of yet.
> 
> (Also, I accidentally stole a few lines from Downton Abbey...if you can spot them, let me know so I can applaud you!)


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